Quick Note: I don't live in Seattle, but I visit occasionally for family gatherings. I don't know many streets, buildings, or whatnot. Forgive me.

Title: My Beloved Monster

Authoress: Bananas in Pajamas

Chapter 2: Mad as a Hatter

Hei mihi, insanire me ajunt, ultro cum ipsi insaniunt

(They call me mad, while they are mad themselves)

Plautus

"I know where you can find Christine."

In a bout of pure muscle memory (in this case, reader, the muscle happened to be his heart), Erik opened his lips to ask "Where?" but stopped himself on "Wh…" and then closed them, looking for a moment like a large mouth bass. Slowly, the cogs began to rotate in his head.

'If this is indeed 2005, then I am one hundred and thirty-four years in the future. Christine, my angel, is long since dead…but this woman claims to know where she is. Perhaps she has escaped from a nearby asylum. Only a crazy woman would believe that my angel still lives. I should be careful around her…'

Moira fiddled with the hem of her tank top as the daunting man quietly regarded her with what could have been suspicion – she wasn't sure. A thought sprang into her head – the homeless shelter ten, maybe fifteen, minutes from where they stood. A friend of Alexandros' girlfriend owned it.

"If you, um, walk about ten minutes that way," she said, pointing towards a sidewalk that lined Rowan Street, "and then turn left on Magnolia, you should see a large brick building. If you tell Donald that Moira sent you, you can get whatever help you need."

The man gracefully bowed his head in thanks before striding off in the direction she pointed.

'No way could I have outrun him,' she thought, noting the way his long legs strode over the park grounds.

Reverting to his native French, Erik muttered to himself as he stalked towards the building that girl…woman…person had directed him to. He wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea to come here. At least he had his trusty Punjab lasso.

Going up a short flight of four or five stairs, Erik found himself standing in front of a door that had "Rehabilitation Center and Shelter for the Homeless" scrawled on it in faded and chipped white paint. Pushing the door open, he walked in, over the cracked linoleum floor, through a glass door, and into a lobby filled with destitute men, women, and even a few children. The smell of sweat, dirt, blood, and alcohol accosted his delicate half-nose and made his eyes water. How people could actually live like this was beyond his reasoning.

All eyes snapped to his resplendent and oddly fashioned clothing, impeccable white porcelain mask, and slicked back hair…er…wig. He felt incredibly uncomfortable being the center of attention, and so he deposited himself in a dark corner and waited for the woman behind the desk to put down the oddly shaped device that she was talking into.

Moira skipped up the last few stairs into her apartment building, strolled into the elevator, and pressed button 14. After a short trip down the hallway and when faced with the locked door that led into the apartment she shared with Alexandros, Moira pulled the spare key out of her shoe and opened the door. She was greeted by a cool blast of air from the air conditioner and she sighed in contentment when it lifted a few sweaty strands of her light red hair off of her forehead.

As her routine dictated, Moira headed towards the bathroom for a cleansing and refreshing shower. Twenty minutes later, her hair was wrapped up in a towel-turban, her body was covered in a cozy, well-worn, lime green robe, and her slipper-covered feet were shuffling about in the kitchen. Of course, she was preparing a routine breakfast – eggs, bacon, and two frozen waffles heated in the temperamental toaster. Her tea sat brewing on the table, Ulysses was still asleep in the exact, mathematical center of her bed, and the weather channel was on. Life was going as it did every morning of every day for Moira.

The thought of calling Alexandros and berating him for his antics flitted through her brain, but was quickly fly-swatted with the knowledge that more likely than not, he was in an area that did not have good, if any, cell reception. 'Damn tugboats' need for cooks,' she grumbled to herself. It would be two weeks before she saw him again, and then only for two days – and those were usually devoted to Rosalyn, his girlfriend. Thinking quietly, she chewed a piece of waffle; maybe she could just fill his shoes with pineapple Jell-O again.

Erik, our beloved Opera Ghost, wasn't known for being particularly patient, but he did his best and sat silently in the corner,twiddled his thumbs and listened to the seemingly one-sided conversation the receptionist was having. Whatever the conversation was about, Erik noted that it contained a generous amount of "Yeah", "Uh-huh", "Like, oh my God!" and "Oh for sure." Erik wisely resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, if opera spooks actually rolled their eyes.

As his thoughts drifted to the three day ping pong tournament up on high, a nasal voice shattered what little peace Erik had been able to gather in this strange world.

"Can I help you?"

His eyes snapped forwards and watched as the woman's lips formed the words again and his ears bore testament to the nails-on-chalkboard voice that that she possessed.

"Can I help you?"

Standing up and walking over, Erik informed the slightly obnoxious receptionist that he needed to talk to Donald.

"Yeah? Who doesn't? Well, I'll just go on back and get him for you," she replied sarcastically.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," he replied.

"You don't get it, do you hon? He may be a nice guy, but Donald doesn't see many of the type of people that come here for help."

"I'm to tell him that 'Moira' sent me, if that helps." He was getting irritated. De…de…definitely definitely irritated by this woman whose hair was an unnatural shade of yellow. Besides, she kept making this particularly annoying popping sound that came from some pink goop that would occasionally come out of her mouth.

At the name 'Moira,' the woman stopped her irritating bubble blowing and Erik could have sworn that her face paled considerably. Ah…to be back in power.

It had been almost a week since Moira had stopped in Sunrise Park to help that stranger and she hadn't thought of him since she had stepped out of the shower that very morning. But one day, a Tuesday if you want to be precise, as Moira returned from grocery shopping, the phone rang.

It was Donald.

He was not happy.

The man she had sent to the shelter had been condescending to everyone there and late Monday night he almost killed somebody. This 'somebody' happened to be Lars, a frequenter of the shelter, and a favorite of most there since he was a happy drunk. He had been a "bit more drunk than usual" and inquired about the porcelain mask on the stranger's face. Apparently, Erik had growled at the small, balding man and then ignored him. Though Lars was a happy drunk, he could also be a very determined drunk, and he ripped the mask away from Erik's face. Soon, Erik's fingers were getting acquainted with the exterior of Lars' throat when the old man choked out, "Nuffin' a wittle pwastic sururey won' fix."

(If you didn't understand his drunken slur, it can be translated into: "Nothing a little plastic surgery won't fix.")

It was this simple sentence that saved Lars' life.

Apparently, Donald wasn't keen on having such a liability staying at his establishment and he was going to ban him from the premises. This 'liability' claimed she was the only other person that he knew in Seattle and this statement prompted Donald to give him directions to her apartment.

To many, the idea that Donald would give a violent man the directions to Moira's apartment is probably atrocious. I agree. It's barbaric and awful and despicable, but it was Donald's way of getting back at Moira for turning down the prospect of spending the rest of her life with him.

Yes, you read that right. He proposed. She declined.

It was inevitable, their lukewarm love affair, what with her brother dating his friend. Blind dates happen…what can I say? They had been involved for a month and a half (most of their time was spent playing phone tag) when Donald had proposed. He felt that he had found the perfect woman. Sure, she could have been a bit taller, agreed with him more often, worn a tad more makeup and contacts and gotten a little more dressed up for their dates, but she was smart and she had a graceful nature and a pretty smile (which would come in handy when he schmoozed with the wealthy, hoping to get funding for the shelter).

His heart had been broken when she ended the relationship and it seemed as though she was determined to stay acquaintances. He still loved her, even after two years (during which he had grown somewhat bitter), and now his only connection to her was through some degenerate who had nearly strangled a defenseless old drunk. Oddly, Moira was the only person that he knew in Seattle, so why, then, should he not give this man directions to her?

Moira could have reached through the receiver and smacked Donald. While pleasant thoughts of leaving an angry, red handprint on the face of that smug, self-important, presumptuous, ass of a man ran through her mind, a buzz resonated through the apartment.

In the paraphrased words of the writer of Close Encounters of a Third Kind: "He's heeeeeere."

In all the days of his life, Erik had never even condescended to the thought that he might need the help of another person. A crazy person, no less. Not just any crazy person, a crazy woman, to be exact. But he found himself outside of her 'apartment', pressing a button, and hoping (he hadn't started praying yet) that the off-kilter woman was home.

An unknown emotion passed through him when nothing happened. There was nothing – no returning buzz, as Donald had said there would be, no recognition that he even existed. Giving up, he slowly turned from the building and headed back to the park that was on the other side of the street.

He sat on a bench and stared at the building like he had for the entire morning. He had seen her jog back to the apartment and go in. He had watched as she left and then returned bearing two brown paper bags. In all the time that he had spent watching her that day, he had yet to get the courage to go to her and ask for help, until a few moments earlier when the odd, unfamiliar feeling passed through his body.

Now that he thought about it, he was loathe to admit that the feeling might have been fear. Of all things that he could have felt, it was fear. Fear that the one person in this enormous city who he even slightly knew – and all he knew was her name and where she lived – might not want to help him. Perhaps she was frightened of him, not that he blamed her. He seemed to have that effect on people.

But still, how was he to fix his curse? He had been under the impression that God would send him back handsome; not send him back disfigured and horrifying to be fixed like…like… like some child's plaything that was accidentally broken.

He laughed at that last thought. Broken. He was broken, physically, mentally, emotionally. He was a broken toy. A pawn of God's glass chess set that had been shattered – not snapped or chipped and then easily repaired or replaced – beyond recognition. He wondered why his mental and emotional destruction didn't seem to physically manifest itself. He was destroyed on the inside, so how could it be possible that he could still walk and talk and breathe? Why did he not crumple on the pavement as a tangled, jumbled mess that, like his mind, would be an incredibly tough knot to unravel?

A flash of green and red stopped his destructive musings. Someone was coming across the street. Moira was coming across the street.

'Why?' he wondered, 'Why is she coming back to the park?'

Then, he realized, she was looking at him, and making her way towards him.

Now that he saw her in broad daylight (something he normally tried to avoid at all costs), he noticed that she had a light smattering of freckles across her cheek bones and her nose. Christine didn't have freckles. No. She had skin like ivory silk – soft, smooth, radiant, and warm. His angel was perfect in every way and she would remain perfect in his memories despite her death.

He also noted, with amusement, that the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. She didn't look strong; maybe he could manipulate her like he had Christine and get her to help him with this "plastic surgery". As his thoughts began to travel down the well-known path of Christine-induced pain, a voice cut through his memories, shredding the film of his mind-made "home" movies.

"Hello, Erik."